


over the hills and far away

by theobscurepotato



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A little angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Monster of the Week, Protective!Geralt, Rain! Monsters! Whump!, a little soft, a smidge of sexy in the final chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobscurepotato/pseuds/theobscurepotato
Summary: “Geralt,” he whispered, eyes feverish and bright, “Tell me truly, am I dying?”Jaskier is attacked in camp.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 232
Kudos: 2118
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	1. Chapter 1

It was the third straight evening of setting up camp in the rain. After the first evening, Geralt had banned Jaskier from trying to provide any sort of clumsy assistance, so the bard shivered with Roach under a copse of evergreens, watching Geralt quickly assemble a shelter from rope and oilcloth. 

“I think I will never be warm again,” Jaskier groaned. “And I’m afraid the constant chattering of my teeth has irreparably harmed m-my diction.” 

The two had been travelling the countryside together for nearly six months. Up until the last few days, Jaskier really felt like he was proving himself to be a worthy travelling companion. He had even successfully snared a hare for dinner five nights ago (although Geralt had to do the actual dispatching). But the nonstop downpour had put the witcher in a surly mood and although Jaskier knew that it only agitated him further, he couldn’t help but continually complain. 

The witcher ignored him, focused on the task at hand.

Jaskier waved the cloth-wrapped bundle he carried in his arms. “And who knows what damage the damp has done to this treasure? Survive the sacking of Dol Blathanna only to succumb to wood rot? It’s basically a crime, Geralt.” The lute’s case had unfortunately not survived the last assignment, although as the witcher pointed out, better the case shredded than the bard. And it would make for a fantastic song that would more than pay for a new case. 

Geralt pulled the last rope tight. “Jaskier, just get in the tent.” 

The bard scrambled inside. Geralt began unloading saddle bags and tossing them through the opening. Jaskier arranged the bedrolls as best he could away from the entrance while Geralt tended to Roach and then climbed inside. Everything was soaked. It would be another long, cold night. 

“Pity it’s another night without a proper campfire,” Jaskier sighed. “Geralt, can you do that Igni thing again, please?” 

“Hmmm.” 

“I’m going to assume that’s an affirmative ‘hmmm’ and thank you with all my heart.”

The witcher had offered this skill on their second rainy night. A light application of Igni got their clothes mostly dry. Jaskier had a sneaking suspicion that the burnt smell would be permanent. Still, worth it. 

Jaskier began to peel off his sodden clothing. His shaking hands struggled a bit with the buttons, but soon each piece was wrung out and laid on the floor. Geralt made a quick flashed gesture and steam rose from the cloth. Jaskier quickly pulled on his least damp trousers and tunic and looked slyly at the witcher. 

“Geralt, if you need help with any of that exoskeleton of yours, I’m at your service.” 

But the witcher had already shaken off most of his armor and had begun drying and oiling each piece by hand. So instead, Jaskier rustled through his knapsack, producing some dried meat and bruised fruit. 

“Looks like more dried venison for dinner. And some apples.” He sighed. “Let’s hope The Witcher and the Bard is well-received with coin and drink for us both.” 

“Six months of travel, and you’re ready to be the hero of your song?”

“Ha, ha, Geralt,” the bard said drily. “You’ll love it, I’m sure. And you’re the hero, obviously, I am more…narrator, really. I’ve tried out a new structure –"

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Narrator? Not damsel-in-distress? Talk about embellishment.” 

Jaskier threw an apple at him. “You could stand to be a little kinder, you know. Say what you like about my singing –and I know you like my singing, I saw you smirk last time I played The Fishmonger—but at least now you’re leaving towns with applause and coin instead of torches and pitchforks. Well, mostly.” 

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier was secretly pleased that Geralt’s mood had lifted enough to tease him. But talking about playing left his hands itching for the lute. The bard shrugged a blanket over his shoulders and unwrapped the instrument from its makeshift case. He began to slowly work his way through the scales. His hands felt cold, and clumsy, but the lute still sang sweetly. Geralt lay on the bedroll, arms behind his head, watching Jaskier play. 

He let the music and his mind wander for a while, then: “Geralt, do witchers feel cold? Or is it somehow reduced?” 

The witcher chuckled, “Are you asking because you want to know, or are you hinting that you are still cold?” 

“Absolutely freezing.”

Geralt reached for his pack and retrieved a flask. “Here, drink this.”

Jaskier lowered the lute and sniffed gingerly at the offered bottle. “What potion is this?”

“Rakija. Temarian vodka.” 

He took a swallow and immediately started coughing. Geralt smacked him on the back. 

“That, that is fire, Geralt.” Jaskier wiped at his eyes, passing the flask back. “What I wouldn’t give for a nice bottle of Everluce, a hot bath, dry clothes…Have you considered witcher-ing for a while in Toussaint? I’m a personal friend of the Duchess. Not really sure what sort of, um, pest problems they could even have in those vineyards, but I’m sure you could suffer through some sunshine and silk sheets.”

Geralt grunted. 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Or at least as not a no.” 

The witcher was silent for a few beats, “Not a no, Jaskier.” 

With that, Geralt laid back on the bedding and closed his eyes. Jaskier smiled to himself and resumed his strumming. 

~  
In the grey early morning, still long before dawn, a human scream awakened them both. Jaskier sat straight up and noticed Geralt already pulling on his armor. 

“Jas, stay here.” He thrust a glass jar at him with a flame floating inside. Jaskier looked to the glass, then the witcher, blinking with sleepy confusion. Another scream rang through the trees. 

“Geralt, what—"

“Ghouls. Sounds like they’ve found a meal. I’m going to draw them away from the area, so I need you to stay here.” The witcher fixed him with a steely look. “And stay quiet.” 

Jaskier listened to Roach’s hoofbeats fade in the distance before dressing quickly in a cloak and boots to ready their gear for leaving. Geralt had loaned him a cloak when Jaskier discovered that he didn’t own a single article of waterproof clothing, and that the heavily embroidered cloth he was partial to retained water more than repelled it. He had felt small and embarrassed at first when Geralt tossed the cloth at him, but instead of a cutting comment Geralt had made a joke about the dark material really bringing out his eyes and smiled at him, and Jaskier felt infinitely better. That was Geralt. Half surly and half…sweet. Every time he was around him, Jaskier felt simultaneously both safe and unsteady. And lately when he wasn’t around Geralt he felt rather worse. Like playing a familiar song yet hearing a note going slightly flat. 

“Not a no,” Jaskier said to himself, quietly, and began humming the melody he had invented that evening. He stopped mid-verse when he heard a low growl, so deep that the bard could feel it in his own chest. His heart beat one-two, then his blood froze as claws ripped the side of the tent completely open. 

Jaskier had seen Geralt take down ghouls before from a distance before. This monstrosity was easily twice the size of a standard ghoul (which are plenty terrifying on their own, thank you). Like your typical ghoul, it most resembled a half-decayed dog, with oversized teeth and claws, but there was something strangely human in its face, something darkly intelligent. 

“An alghoul,” he breathed as the beast tossed its head back and roared, leaping toward him. Jaskier ducked, grabbed the jar of flame, and scrambled outside the tent. He made it two steps before slipping and pitched forward into the mud. Before he could climb to his feet, the alghoul was upon him. 

“Fuck!” he screamed and thrust the jar into the creature’s face. The glass exploded on contact in a shower of flame. The force of the explosion flung them both backwards. Jaskier heard an audible crack as his head connected with a rock and could only lay on the ground, stunned, watching the alghoul howl and claw at its face. It turned towards him and Jaskier could smell its graveyard stench, see the hungry yellow glow of its eyes before the world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

The screams had stopped by the time Geralt reached a small farm not too terribly far from their camp. An entire family had been slaughtered. The ghouls had made quick work of the bodies: Geralt knew it was a family only based on the quantity and variety of pieces scattered on the earth and the sheer volume of blood. 

Ghouls were always hungry, like most necrophages. Geralt had seen ghouls on a battlefield eat until their stomachs distended. But gorging left their reflexes slower. These ghouls were so focused on feasting that Geralt dispatched them before they even registered his presence. Each blow left a slick of black blood that stank and steamed in the cold night. Even the rain wasn’t enough to wash it from the ground. 

Geralt was wiping his sword clean on a patch of grass when he heard Jaskier scream. The sky flashed brightly with magicked fire before the woods sank into darkness again. 

“Fuck.” The witcher whistled for Roach and threw himself into the saddle. Sensing his anxiety, the horse sped her rider faster ahead without any urging. Geralt listened intently for another scream, a shout, any sign at all to clue him into Jaskier’s situation. There was only silence. 

~

The clearing smelled like burnt flesh and blood and another familiar scent that the witcher could not place. 

He dismounted from Roach and stalked into camp. The side tent panel had been rent wide open and the tattered cloth flapped in the wind. Jaskier’s lute remained on the bedroll. Geralt took quick inventory: at least the bard had left with boots and his cloak. The witcher followed the faint footsteps from the tent into the forest. 

Jaskier had ran, and then been dragged, judging by deep furrows in the mud. 

Another ten paces and there lay the body of the alghoul. It was one of the largest Geralt had encountered, easily three meters from tip to tail. It was also surprisingly but undeniably dead. Close inspection revealed that the creature’s face had half-melted from the bone. Black fluid dripped out of one ruined eye. 

That was when Geralt then recognized the scent. Dancing Star --the glass jar that Geralt had given Jaskier as insurance, specially formulated for multiple fiery explosions. It looked like the glass had broken off into the alghoul’s face and the secondary explosion of the shards lodged in its eye had finished it off. But where the fuck was Jaskier?

A glimpse of blue caught his attention. The witcher narrowed his eyes at a piece of dark blue cloth, just visible from under the alghoul’s body. He quickly grabbed the alghoul’s front leg with both hands and heaved, flipping the carcass onto its back. 

There, curled into a shallow depression in the muddy ground, was Jaskier. Geralt turned him over gently and had to check twice to make sure he was still breathing. Something twisted in Geralt’s stomach at the feeling of warm breath on his palm as he felt around the bard’s face and neck. Quickly, he assessed Jaskier’s injuries: a bloody gash on his scalp from striking a rock, deep burns on his left hand from the Dancing Star, bruising along the ribs. Yet Geralt still scented human blood. As he gently patted his way down Jaskier’s body he discovered four puncture wounds to the inner thigh where the alghoul had dug in its claws. Blood dripped slowly from the wound, staining the surrounding fabric. 

All necrophages can kill with a bite or a scratch. Their appetite for decaying flesh leaves their claws and mouths filled with rotten bacteria. Jaskier’s wounds were not especially deep, but that didn’t mean it was not a deadly injury. He was, however, fortunate that he had not been bit –a necrophage bite that close to a major artery would have killed him already. 

Geralt’s own heartbeat was loud in his ears, accelerating to near-human pace. 

_A memory of himself and Vesemir, long ago. A pack of ghouls massacred a merchant caravan and the two witchers had arrived late to the carnage. A young man of around twenty lay propped against a wagon wheel. He sucked for air and with a horrible sound, a bubble of blood emerged from his throat. Geralt quickly pressed a cloth to the gaping bite near the man’s neck to stop the bleeding and the man shuddered and expired before he could even bandage the wound. Vesemir’s mouth twisted with sympathy for the young witcher. “Geralt, nothing to be done. Humans are just such fragile creatures.”_

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed. 

At that, Jaskier stirred and tried to sit up. 

“Geralt,” he moaned, “Geralt, there’s a fucking _alghoul_.” His blue eyes flashed from panic to pain to confusion as he took in his surroundings, including one very dead alghoul. Geralt put an arm around his shoulders and Jaskier leaned heavily against him. Geralt felt him tremble.

“Oh, fuck, my hand,” he groaned and clutched his left arm to his chest. “Geralt?”

“Don’t move, Jas. I need to bandage your leg and I’ll carry you to Roach.”

“The leg, too? Well then, you may be right about that whole damsel-in-distress bit.” Jaskier attempted to laugh. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

Geralt wrapped a strip of cloth around the wound, just enough to halt the bleeding. “Not exactly. You killed it before I showed up.” 

“I what?” Jaskier squeaked and his eyes darted rapidly at the monster, then his injured hand, then to Geralt, then back at the alghoul. “How? I remember smashing that bottle in its eye but, I mean, you’re absolutely sure –” 

“Dancing Star. It creates multiple explosions. The second explosion was in its skull.”

“Okay, so, just as easy as that, then,” Jaskier said and promptly fainted into his arms. 

~

They headed back to the farm. Geralt could not think of a better plan but knew that Jaskier would not survive a day’s journey by horse to the next town. Fortunately, the ghouls hadn’t ransacked the house too badly –the majority of the blood and gore was outside. He carried Jaskier inside and laid him on the table before tending to Roach and their belongings. 

Roach stamped her feet when he lead her into the stable, the smell outside making her nervous. Geralt quickly pitched some hay into her stall and removed the saddlebags. He slung the lute over his shoulder. 

“Sorry, Roach. I’ll make it up to you.”

Grabbing an armload of wood, Geralt entered the small home. He built up the fire in the hearth first until it was roaring and hung a pot of water over the flames. 

The bard was pale and soaked to the bone, still covered head to toe in mud. His clothes were ruined, so Geralt gently cut the cloth away from his body where the clothing was too tight (or too complicated) to remove easily. The lean lines of his naked body reminded Geralt just how young and vulnerable Jaskier truly was. 

He flushed the puncture wounds out first, packing them with healing salve and bandaging the injury with strips of cloth. Then, carefully, he began to wipe the blood and mud from the bard’s body. When he reached his left hand, Geralt paused. A few of the burns were deep, especially the one across the palm of his hand. Something like sorrow crushed Geralt’s chest at the sight. He dressed the wound with a cooling salve made from honey and aloe and loosely wrapped bandages from his hand down to his forearm. 

Throughout it all, Jaskier lay there unmoving. The room was pleasantly warm from the fire but the bard remained cold to the touch. 

Geralt dragged the straw-filled mattress from the sleeping area next to the hearth and began piling every fur and blanket he could find onto it. He lifted Jaskier from the table and settled him gently in the bedding. Geralt then lay on top of the blankets, an arm’s length away. It was normal for the two of them to share a bed during their travels when lack of coin or bad weather made it inevitable. But Jaskier was normally a restless sleeper, constantly tossing and turning, hands and feet twitching as he dreamed. For fuck’s sake, the man even talked in his sleep. For him to lay here so quiet and still was terribly wrong. 

Geralt grabbed for his hand and held his wrist. His pulse was faint but steady. 

_Humans are just such fragile creatures._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome back into fandom. I love all your comments –they are always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

The fever came on quickly, and with it, hallucinations. Jaskier would sit up in the bed suddenly like a man possessed, his eyes wide but unseeing, crying out –and Geralt would climb into bed and hush him, letting Jaskier cling to him while he sweated and trembled. 

It was surprisingly easy for him to touch Jaskier. Usually Geralt hated being too close to anyone, flinching even at the touch of a hand pressing coins in his palm. But now Geralt gently patted his back, smoothed his hair, whispered _goddamn nonsense_ , really, in answer to every whimper or moan. 

Just like soothing Roach, he thought, and nearly smiled to imagine the bard’s indignant reaction to the comparison…

He will heal, Geralt told himself firmly. Jaskier will heal, and he will let him ride Roach, and maybe they will take that trip into Toussaint after all. Drink some wine. Sleep in a fucking feather bed until the shadows leave his face and Geralt could breathe again. 

~

When Geralt heard Roach whinny in warning, he slipped outside the house and stood in the shadows. A very fat man on a white mare was rapidly approaching. As he watched, the man dismounted and dropped to his knees among the carnage, wringing his hands and weeping openly. 

Geralt stepped into the light and raised his hand in greeting. The man gaped at him. 

“A witcher?”

Geralt grunted. “Ghouls.”

The man continued to stare at him, tears running down his face. 

He cleared his throat and tried again: “Um, I am sorry for your loss. From the ghoul attack.”

“My, my brother and his family,” the man sobbed. “Oh, what evil times.”

“They’ve been avenged,” Geralt said quickly, before the man had a chance to share more of his family’s tale. “But in doing so, my companion was injured in the battle. I need a healer but I can’t leave him. Please, I will pay you and him both handsomely.”

“I owe you a debt, Sir Witcher, for avenging ‘em,” the man said, wiping his nose with his shirt. “I’ll ride as fast as I can, but it’s tomorrow at the earliest by the time he reaches you.” 

“Then take my horse with you.” Geralt sighed. He never felt quite right leaving Roach in anyone else’s hands. “Let the healer return here more quickly. She’ll find her way back.” 

The man’s eyes dried a little when he felt the weight of the coin purse. 

“I will. Melitele’s blessings on you, Sir Witcher. I only ask that when you and your companion leave, that you build a proper pyre and burn out the curse and the stench of this place.” 

~

Jaskier awoke to Geralt wiping his face with a wet cloth. The air was acrid with the smell of blood and vomit but the cloth was cooling and smelled like fresh herbs. He moaned a little when it was withdrawn.

“Geralt,” he whispered, eyes feverish and bright, “Tell me truly, am I dying?”

Geralt stiffened. “You’re fine, Jaskier. Healer’s coming to patch you up.” _If he didn’t just leave with my coin and fuck us._ Then, more softly: “Just stay with me, Jas.” 

And Jaskier tried. He fought with everything in him to stay awake, tried to focus on the feeling of the cool cloth soothing his burning skin. Geralt was speaking to him. The sound of it washed over him like white noise and consciousness escaped him again. 

~

“He is in a bad way,” the healer said, “but not irreversibly so. The salve you used has trapped the infection at the site of the injury.”

Jaskier lay undressed on the table. The healer, a small man with a permanently furrowed brow, had poked and prodded his injuries for several minutes with no reaction from the unconscious man. 

Geralt paced the floor. “Which means?”

“Which means I need to cut away the corrupted flesh. But I will need your help to draw out the infection before I cauterize the wound.” He untied a roll of cloth and began laying out a series of small, curved knives next to a shallow basin. “You are a witcher and are therefore resistant to the toxins. You will need to suck the toxins from the wound. See here, where the blood is nearly black? When it runs red, the blood is clean and he can finally heal.”

He wrapped a thin strip of cloth around Jaskier’s leg, nearly to his groin, and pulled the tourniquet tight. Jaskier groaned and his eyelashes fluttered but he did not awaken. 

“Your friend is lucky. Without a mage or a witcher to remove the toxins, he would be dead.”

_And without a witcher, he wouldn’t be in this shit to begin with._ “Shouldn’t you give him something for the pain?”

“I dare not risk an interaction; I am not familiar with your herbal methods. What you can do is hold him down so I can work faster.”

Jaskier screamed when the knife was first put to him. Geralt kept his eyes trained on the wall while Jaskier thrashed in his grip. Fortunately, he blacked out quickly. Geralt’s hands remained on his shoulders. 

The healer wiped his hands on a bit of bloodied cloth and tossed it in the basin. “Quickly, now.” 

Geralt pressed his mouth to the first incision and sucked. Jaskier’s thighs were slippery with blood and sweat and the whole situation felt like some intimate, terrible nightmare. The blood was thick and almost oily in his mouth. He spit a mouthful into the basin and returned again to the wound. The next mouthful tasted equally foul, like decaying leaves. 

He returned again and again to each of the four incisions until the blood ran red. He finally breathed in the musky coppery human scent with relief as Jaskier moaned and shifted, smearing blood down Geralt’s cheek. 

Geralt stood up, wiping at his mouth. He felt the healer looking at him, sensed a question that never came. 

“Alright, good. Now hold him down again. I need to seal these wounds.” 

~

Jaskier dreamed.  
_  
He was back at Pavetta’s feast, playing a rousing rendition of “All Women are the Same” when his hand seized and he was suddenly unable to press the fretboard. He glared at the offending digit, willing it to move, while the entire hall of people stopped mid-dance to turn simultaneously towards him._

_“Uh, no problem here! Just, just give me—”_

_The Lioness stormed from the dais, snatching the instrument from his hands. He remained frozen in place. The numbness was spreading from his arm into his chest._

_“What use is a bard that can’t fucking play?” Queen Calanthe snarled and smashed the lute on the ground._

_Jaskier shut his eyes against the wave of dizziness that overtook him. When he opened them, the crowd was pushing in, hundreds of hands grabbing for him. Their eyes were bright and their teeth sharp._

_“Come back! Come back!” they chanted, tugging at his hands, his hair, spinning him, pulling him under in a sea of bodies. Jaskier kicked and twisted, desperately trying to break free. Across the room, he spotted Geralt making his way toward the exit._

_“I’m here!” he screamed as they dragged him down. “Geralt, I’m right here!”_

_Come back, come back, come back.  
_  
~

Jaskier wouldn’t wake. 

The healer had left earlier that morning, leaving Geralt with a collection of salves and tinctures.

_“If he can break the fever, he should make it. Try to wake him up every hour or so if you can. It doesn’t matter if he is lucid: if he falls into too deep a sleep with an injury like this he might not come back.”_

And now it was evening, and Jaskier lay pale and unmoving on the mattress. 

“Come on, Jas,” he growled and gets a little rough without meaning too, shakes him. “Don’t fucking do this.” 

Jaskier’s head lolled from side to side like a marionette as Geralt gripped his shoulders. This close, Geralt could see the dark circles under the smudge of his eyelashes and caught the darting movement under his eyelids as he dreamed. 

He looked impossibly fragile, Geralt thought, and his anger dissipated. Fear rose up to take its place and another emotion underneath it that Geralt refused to acknowledge.

“Jas, please wake up.” 

~  
_  
Laugh at the night,  
at the day, at the moon,  
laugh at this clumsy  
boy who loves you, _

The rough, low voice sang haltingly, like someone unused to carrying a tune. Jaskier slowly floated between the notes and the darkness, swimming in and out of consciousness.  
_  
when my steps go,  
when my steps return,  
deny me bread, air,  
light, spring,  
but never your laughter  
_  
“Geralt,” he whispered. 

Silence. 

“Geralt,” he ran his tongue over cracked lips and tried again. “Geralt, were you _singing?_ ” 

The bed dipped. He felt a warm hand cup his face and opened his eyes to the witcher leaning over him. Concern and relief flooded those golden eyes. 

“I thought,” Geralt pulled back, faltered. “I thought that it might bring you back.”

Jaskier felt his breath hitch in his throat. He reached out his uninjured hand and found his slender wrist immediately enclosed in the witcher’s strong grip. 

“I tried everything else,” Geralt emphasized. “And nothing was fucking working.”

Jaskier could only nod, tears welling in his eyes as hazy memories surfaced: gentle hands smoothing his hair, lips pressed to his fever-dampened brow. Without warning, Geralt crushed him to his chest.

The bard sighed into his shoulder and felt Geralt tremble. 

“I love you, too,” Jaskier said simply. “Incidentally, did you know that’s my favorite song?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much! I am playing catch-up to respond to all your wonderful comments. 
> 
> Next chapter we're moving from hurt into comfort territory, addressing Jaskier's hand, and getting these boys closer to their happy ever after. 
> 
> *song lyrics bastardized from Pablo Neruda's poem, "Laughter" because I am shit at song-writing.


	4. Chapter 4

They didn’t talk about it. Of course not. 

They didn’t talk about it the next morning, or the next, or even the third morning, although to be fair, Jaskier spent most of the three days dozing only to wake up more often than not in Geralt’s arms. They didn’t talk about it when Geralt wrapped Jaskier in blankets and hoisted him onto Roach, cradled him as he sat side-saddle to avoid aggravating his injuries, and lead them from the farmstead toward town. And they didn’t talk about it when they finally reached the inn, not when Geralt carried him up the creaking wooden stairs, not when they both collapsed fully clothed, dirty and exhausted, into crisp sheets that smelled ever so faintly of flowers. 

“Geralt –” Jaskier began, and turned to face him, but the witcher was already deeply asleep. 

~  
Jaskier leaned against the headboard, propped up with pillows, the lute in his arms and a glass of spirits on the table next to him. 

The alghoul’s head had brought good money: the room was clean and spacious, and upon returning to the inn, Geralt had been able to order food, alcohol, and a bath to be drawn without haggling over price. The bard had been unusually quiet through dinner, picking at the plate of vension and potatoes that Geralt brought from downstairs. He smiled, though, when Geralt had finally procured a bottle of rakija spirits and served them both several generous servings, before Jaskier climbed back into bed with the bottle and the lute while they both waited for the bath to be drawn. 

Geralt made a show of cleaning and oiling his armor as he watched Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “Jaskier, you can’t even make a fist with that hand. How are you going to play?”

“Drunkenly,” he said flatly. “And probably painfully, and badly, and a host of other adjectives that I can’t wait to discover.”

Jaskier poured another three fingers of rakija and swallowed it in one gulp. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and collar. Slowly, he phantomed moving his hand up and down the strings on the fingerboard, wincing with every light application of pressure. His frustration was obvious as he plucked each string in slow succession. 

“I wonder if?” he muttered to himself and then flipped the instrument to the opposite side, so his right hand was on the fingerboard and his injured hand at the strings. He began to haltingly work through some scales and stopped, drummed his nails on the side of the lute, and sighed. 

“I’ll need a plectrum if I have any hope of finishing a song.” 

Geralt pretended to look up for the first time. “Hmm?”

“A plectrum. A pick. For strumming. I can bandage my palm tighter and avoid any injury-to-instrument contact as long as I play backwards like this.”

“Surprised you don’t have one of those already.” 

Jaskier’s face was flushed. “Well, it’s a little like going at it with a, um, glove, if you’ll forgive the metaphor. Less pleasurable for all parties. Essentially, there’s a difference in tone when I switch between my nails and the tips of my fingers that will be lacking with a plectrum.”

With that, he began a quick chord progression that he repeated five times, going slightly faster in each repetition. By the final repetition, his eyes were closed, and he bit his lip as he played the final notes. Geralt could smell blood, faintly. As the notes faded, Jaskier sat there, eyes shut, breathing slowly and deliberately. His hands were shaking. 

“Maybe tomorrow we can ask around town,” Geralt offered, trying to break the awful silence that had descended up on them. 

“Maybe so,” Jaskier agreed, and then, without opening his eyes, added brightly: “And maybe in the week or so it takes me to transition to this work-around, the absolute fucking agony of my hand should lessen enough to let me sing and play simultaneously.” 

“Jaskier –” 

The bard continued, voice rising. “It’s just a temporary fix until my hand heals that will, in no way, permanently impact my playing or irreparably damage my technique –” 

“Jaskier, stop.” Geralt crossed the room in two steps and grabbed his shoulders. Jaskier lowered the lute and met the witcher’s eyes. His blue eyes were shiny with tears. Geralt leaned in closer, their faces nearly touching…

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Sir, your bath is ready.”

Geralt looked away as Jaskier scrubbed at his face with his good hand. 

“Here,” he said, gruffly. “Lean on me. Tell me if it hurts too badly.” 

~ 

The side room contained a roaring fireplace and a large tub with steam rising gloriously from the water.  
It was so warm and inviting that Jaskier nearly wept at the sight. 

Geralt helped him to a stool next to the tub and wordlessly began to unbutton his shirt. They hadn’t talked about that night, of course not, although Jaskier had woken up every morning since in his arms. But the memory was there as Geralt undressed him, both of them not meeting the other’s eyes. His arm was around Geralt’s neck as he shrugged out of the rest of his clothing. 

“Careful,” Geralt said and slowly lowered him into the tub. Jaskier gritted his teeth against the initial sting of the water on his injuries but oh fuck, was it nice to be in a proper bath. He leaned against the edge, leaving his left arm hanging out of the tub and sighed. It was nearly heaven.

“Geralt, could you please wash my hair?” he asked. He closed his eyes and sank up to his neck. 

Instead of a verbal response, he felt strong fingers carding through his hair, then a warm sluice of water at the crown of his head. Jaskier hummed a little. The soap was rough but it smelled pleasing, like bergamot.

Geralt cleared his throat, “I had a kikimora injure me once. When I was much younger.”

His hands stopped for a moment before he continued. “I was inexperienced then. It split my hand to the bone. We stitched it up but because the nerves in the hand are more delicate, we didn’t use any witcher remedies. Vesemir had me practice two days, then rest for one. Said it was important to maintain the flexibility but to also give time to heal. The balance is important. And it healed and I was back to using my sword arm again before I even knew it.”

He remained very still as Geralt sighed and stood up. “You’ll be fine, Jas. I promise. Whatever it takes.” 

Jaskier kept his eyes shut against the burn of tears that threatened to return.

“I, uh, appreciate the personal allegory,” he said, then added quietly, “I always like when you are kind.”

He felt the water in the tub shift as Geralt lowered himself into the water. Then a strong hand cupped his jaw, turning his face upwards, and then suddenly he felt the press of lips against his; he was being kissed, softly at first, then deepening, the bite of liquor lingering on both their tongues. Jaskier opened his eyes, met Geralt’s golden hungry gaze. 

“I think, I think you should do that again,” he said, and then their mouths met again, as he tangled his hand into Geralt’s white mane and pulled him close. Surely nobody had ever kissed him breathless like this before: no sweet, safe maid, no strong nobleman’s son. 

Geralt leaned over him, looking deep into his eyes as if searching for something. 

“Jas, are you well?” 

And Jaskier knew what he was truly asking with that question. 

“Fine!” he gasped, “Right as rain, never been better –” and before he even finished speaking, Geralt lifted him from the tub and carried him through the door into the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is our boy too injured, or is he truly dtf? One more chapter to get these tender idiots to their happy ever after. 
> 
> Thank you for all your comments & kudos, you keep me motivated!


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier sprawled back on the bed and then Geralt was on him. Geralt kissed his forehead, the corner of his mouth, and then licked down his chest, hungrily pressing kisses onto his stomach. Jaskier leaned back on his elbows, half-propped on the pillows. He was flushed and trembling, responding enthusiastically and vocally to each touch. 

“Fuck, you are lovely,” Geralt murmured against his skin, stopping to suck a bruise into the jut of his hip. He smelled like bergamont and rosemary and sweat and arousal. It was undeniably masculine, undeniably _Jaskier_ and really, it all went straight to his cock. 

“Thank you, Geralt, but perhaps you could put that mouth to better use?” The smile in his voice barely masked the hint of impatience. Jaskier twisted under his hands and immediately hissed in pain. Geralt pulled back and looked up into his face. The bard had paled underneath his earlier flush. 

“I put weight on my hand,” he winced, tears in his eyes. “By accident. When I leaned back. I just wanted to, I just wanted to look at you, fuck.” 

_You knew exactly how injured he was and you still decided to start this. You know that he never refuses you, even at his own expense._  
Guilt and concern played across Geralt’s face. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no. I know that look,” Jaskier said, a little tetchily. “I am not made of glass, Geralt.”

“Never said you were,” the witcher said mildly, sitting back on his heels and looking down at him. His eyes met Jaskier’s. The _I don’t want to hurt you_ remained unspoken. 

“Ugh. Geralt. Kiss me. Quickly, before I fuck up this moment that I’ve been dreaming about for oh, just most of my adult life.”

“Here.” Geralt stretched out next to him on the bed. “Let me take care of you.” He leaned over him and kissed him deeply. Jaskier moaned into his mouth as Geralt wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked him from root to tip. He spit into his hand and began to jerk him off slowly, twisting his hand at the tip as he met Jaskier’s mouth again. 

“Please, a little harder,” Jaskier panted, and he obliged. The bard’s face was flushed, his beautiful blue eyes dark with lust. Geralt had fucked many beautiful people in his lifetime. None of them had ever looked at him like Jaskier did now, like he was something precious and good, someone worthy of love. Jaskier, who was kind and foolish, brave and impulsive. Someone easily worthy of love. Who, gods know why, had chosen him. 

Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s and kissed the corner of his mouth. 

“I love you, Jas.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. The rhythm in his hips stuttered and he came with Geralt’s name on his lips. 

~  
Later, after, moonlight streamed into the room and Jaskier lay awake in Geralt’s arms.

 _There was a very interesting type of fear that comes with getting what you always wanted_ , he thought. _Happy ending, sad ending… it just depends on when you stop the story. And the sun will rise, and there will be a tomorrow, and hopefully another and another after that, and-_

“Jaskier, why are you awake? Are you in pain?” 

“No, just thinking,” he said and pressed a finger to his temple for emphasis. “Lots of interesting events lately. Enjoying being conscious for the later ones.” 

“Hmm. Stop mindfucking everything and just go to sleep.”

Jaskier turned and smiled into his shoulder. “Geralt?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think, sometime, you might sing to me again? But preferably while I’m conscious? Like, now, for example. Now would be a really nice time for it.”

Geralt snorted. “My singing is strictly for reviving bards at death’s door. And possibly for scaring animals off from camp.” 

“Hmph,” Jaskier said. “I mean, you could romance me just a little, you ass. I’ve had…quite a week.”

The hum of Geralt’s chest meant he was laughing silently, and Jaskier curled against him as Geralt tightened his arms around him. There was a new song there, when he felt well enough to scratch it out. And there would be all the time in the world to do so.

“Mmm…well, goodnight, Geralt.”

A few minutes passed, then he felt a hand stroking his hair, and heard the sound of a strong, low baritone:  
_  
Well, if the sunshine's so bright,  
Or on our way it's darkest night  
The road we choose is always right, so fine.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you all so much for your patience with this last update. A lot of difficult life stuff has happened this year already and it's been hard to just get away and write. I've really appreciated all your comments --they've been nothing but a joy to me. 
> 
> Song title from Led Zep, ending song lyrics from Led Zep.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written any fanfiction in 15 years, but something about these two idiots sparked it. I’d forgotten what a pleasure this is.


End file.
